“I remember that,” said Hal.
Since there would be no more fighting on Manhattan, Hal found himself with time on his hands for the first time since that October night at the Water Gap. He decided that he would go into Nieuw Amsterdam with the vague idea that he would see Fons. He found Bel along the road, just beyond their camp, mounted on Belisarius. The horse had been cleaned and groomed and looked good enough for a parade. The same could not be said for Bel’s leathers.
“Were you waiting for me,” he asked, “and if so, how did you know I would be here?”
“When the colonel is going somewhere, a lot of people know,” she said. “Some of them talk. More than they should, probably.”
Hal sighed. It was almost certainly true. “But why bother?”
Bel shrugged. “I need to see Fons. With your uniform, you can be a good distraction for the men who buzz around him all day now.”
That didn’t make sense. Bel, of all people, would be able to figure out how to see Fons alone, if that was what she wanted. He did not say that, though. Instead, he asked why she needed to see Fons.
“The fighting is almost done,” she said. “We will offer amnesty to the Provi units, excepting only the leaders. The troops will join us. Massachusetts will not start a major war. They came only because there was a chance to grab territory cheaply while we had a civil war. Now, they will agree to a peace. Once that happens, the rightful governor will return from Montreal. He will restore the lands to people the Provis dispossessed. Fons should have his family’s lands back. I need to see to it that he thinks of himself, for once, and demands them.”
Hal did not see Fons as the shy type, but otherwise what Bel said made sense. “And how about your family’s property?” he added. “That should come to you, shouldn’t it?”
Bel did not answer for a while. When she did, she said only, “I have no family. You know that, Hal Christianson.” She was quiet the rest of the way to the city.
When they passed through the main gate in the city wall, Hal looked for the newspaper pages that the paperboys tacked up. He was, in fact, curious to see if Skene had gotten the front-page billing he had claimed he would. There it was, right by the entrance, the front page of the Nieuw Amsterdam Herald.
“Oh, my God!” Hal stared at the page tacked to the wooden billboard. The banner headline read “Bloody Hal, Hero of Gardiner’s Farm.”
“I’ll sell you the paper. Read about the battle.” A paperboy materialized by his side.
Hal looked down and fought a shudder. His first thought was that it was the Pincher. A second glance made it clear that was not the case. The boy was small, like the Pincher, but he was not nearly as dirty. His clothes were whole and his oval face snub-nosed. Hal shook himself. He dug coins out of his pocket, paid the boy and took the paper.
“So, what does it say about you?” Bel asked.
Hal skimmed through the column and groaned. “Listen to this.” He read, “This correspondent was standing on the spot when the messenger from the Dutch battalion ran up. Major van den Heyden had been killed, he said, and the captain now in command was so unnerved and confused that he was asking for permission to retreat. Retreat! With the battle at its height and the outcome in the balance, who could think of such a thing? Colonel Hal Christianson, himself drenched in the blood of foes slain with his own sword, fixed that messenger with a stern eye. ‘We intend to stand here and die like men,’ he said. ‘You tell your captain I expect the same from him.’”
Hal shook his head. “Skene was at the wall, I’ll give him that. But I don’t remember him next to me and that’s not exactly what I said.”
“So what?” Bel replied. “It sounds good the way he wrote it.”
“So what? This makes me out to be like a hero from the Greek myths. ‘Standing by his standard, not yielding an inch, he cut down a score of the Lobsters that dared try to topple that flag.’ Oh, my God.”
“Let me see it.” She reached for the paper, and Hal pulled it back. “God dammit, Hal Christianson, I have my letters. You know that.” As swift as her sword could lunge, her hand shot out and grabbed the paper.
Bel took more time to read the article than Hal had. When she finished, she folded the paper and handed it back. “It’s good,” she said. “You should keep it.”
“Please. It makes it sound like I won the war myself.”
“That may not be far from the truth.” She smiled.
“Oh, not you, too.” Hal gave a snort. “Where would I be if you hadn’t made that charge with the woodsrangers? Or if Verplanck hadn’t brought the rest of the army up in time?”
“Dead, probably. But, that’s not what matters.” Bel rubbed the scar on her cheek. “You blocked the Massachusetts advance. Even if you had lost and died at the end, they would not have passed Gardiner’s Farm that day, nor probably the next—at least, not in any shape to take on Verplanck. No matter what they did after that fight, Verplanck would have stopped them. They would not have reached Nieuw Amsterdam, would not have crossed the Hudson. We would still hold Nieuw Amsterdam and New Sweden still stays out. So, you did win the war. The rest is just the difference between being a live hero or a dead one.”
Hal colored. “Well, thank you for saving my life. Again. But what do I do about these people staring at me?”
“Get used to it.”
34
Magical Man
THE WAR ENDED quietly. As Bel predicted, Verplanck offered amnesty to all Provi troops that would swear again to the rightful governor, or rather, his son. The Provis in Nassau Province took him up on it, securing the Nieuw Netherlands territory west of the Hudson. No one reported seeing Harmsworth, but no troops were rallying to him, so it did not, perhaps, matter whether he was dead or alive. With Nieuw Netherlands united again, Massachusetts faced the choice of calling up all their militia and embarking on a full scale war, or taking an offer of peace. Again, Bel’s prediction was correct. Massachusetts signed a peace treaty in Hartford on the first of June. With that, the rightful governor began his slow progress from Montreal.
He reached the vicinity of Nieuw Amsterdam after a month’s journey. Then he issued a proclamation that a grand review of the army would be held on the fourth of July. Petitions would be heard and restitution made to those who had been victimized by the Provis. By virtue of their valor in the fighting, the First Riflemen would be stationed right in front of the governor’s pavilion and would lead the army in the review.
The site of the review was a field outside the village of New Rochelle. The day before, men worked furiously to put up a large, tented pavilion where the governor and his entourage would stand. Stakes were planted in the field to mark where each unit should form their ranks. The morning of the review, the troops were roused early. Uniforms had been mended by the army’s servants over the days before and now had to be spotless. Boots were polished and brass buttons were shined. Even with all the effort, there was no disguising that they had been in the field and in battle, but from a distance it would all look good. When all the preparation was done, they marched out into the field and took their positions according to the stakes, a carpet of orange and butternut that rolled up the gentle green slope of the meadow. Then they waited in the hot sun for the governor to come. There was nothing to drink and no possibility of sitting down, because the troops must be perfect when the governor appeared, and there was no telling when that might occur.
At first, Hal was just uncomfortable. As the time stretched out, though, he became angry. His legs ached from standing in place. The summer sun baked him inside the heavy uniform. Sweat ran down his face from under his hat and he could feel it snaking its way along his spine. He began to feel dizzy. From where he stood, directly in front of the First Riflemen, he could not see his troops, but he doubted they were faring any better. If this goes on, he thought, the sun will do what the Lobsters didn’t and knock out the entire regiment.
In the event, the governor’s party arrived just before midday. Th
ey strolled onto the field from the direction of the village with none of the precision Verplanck’s troops had displayed when they had arrived hours before. From his position in front, Hal could see them in detail. There was the governor himself, the surviving son of the one the Provis had deposed. He looked a little older than Hal, with full lips set in a pout and a nose that would have done better on a larger face. Curled hair fell to his shoulders. The purple velvet and lace of his jacket might have been as warm as Hal’s uniform, but he had not been in the sun for hours. Several older men wearing similar garb walked along with him. Behind him and to the sides were a cluster of hard-faced men who wore black pants, black shirts, and black jackets and were armed with swords and pistols.
“God’s Love, he’s brought the Black Jackets back.” The voice was a whisper from behind Hal. He could not place the man who had said it and he could hardly turn around to look. It was obvious where the nickname of the infamous Governor’s Guards came from. People held them responsible for murders and kidnappings during the rule of the last two governors, and Hal had heard enough of them to doubt it was just tales spread by the Provis. What did it mean that they were with the new governor?
The governor’s party took their places on the stage under the tent. The governor gestured to one of the older men, who stepped forward with a sheaf of papers in his hands.
“We give thanks to the Lord for the restoration of the rightful governor and the overthrow of the usurpers!” The man’s voice boomed out, not needing any amplification to carry across the meadow, Dutch first, then English. “In the name of the rightful governor, Georg Pieter Willem Stuyvesant and van Rensselaer IV, all lands and property held by any member or supporter of the so-called Provisional Government are confiscated and are now the property of the governor. In recognition of the loyalty and steadfastness of the most valued supporters of Governor Georg Pieter Willem Stuyvesant and van Rensselaer IV, the governor makes the following grants of these properties.” He proceeded to read a list of people’s names, each followed by a string of names and locations of properties. At each name, a man stepped forward, knelt before the governor, and kissed the jeweled ring on his right hand. Every one of those men was a member of the party that had come with the governor. Clearly, all had been in exile with him.
When that list was done, the man went on to heap honors, but no properties, on Eugen Verplanck and his army. Hal heard himself recognized as a member of the Order of the Golden Fleece and recipient of the Bronzen Leeuw of the Hudson Valley, with the right to wear certain decorations on his uniform. None of that meant anything to him.
The roll of honors went on for nearly another hour, prolonged beyond its intrinsic verbosity by the sequential translation. Hal felt as though he would faint. From the sounds in the ranks behind him, at least a few soldiers did exactly that. At long last, the man finished with his list.
One of the Black Jackets stepped forward. “Prepare to pass in review!”
Before any orders could be issued, though—before any of the troops moved—there was a murmur across the improvised parade ground. Hal turned and saw Fons ten Eyck in his battered old leathers walking down the path between the two infantry divisions of Verplanck’s army. He walked right up to the edge of the stage of the governor’s pavilion. There he bowed deeply, but did not kneel.
“We have been told that petitions will be heard.” There was no difficulty hearing his voice. “May I address one to the governor?” In the same manner as the governor’s man, ten Eyck spoke first in Dutch, then in English.
The reply came from the same man who had been reading the lists. “Any petition should have been received a week ago, so that we could decide on its suitability. The governor, however, is beneficent. You may present it as long as you are quick about it. Do not keep the governor standing out here in this heat.”
Fons took no notice of the irony. “My Governor,” he said, “I and many others who have fought for you had our lands taken by the Provisionals you rightly name as usurpers. I beg that you consider the return of these lands to us.”
The speaker stepped back and, along with two others, joined the governor in a whispered conversation that Hal could not hear. Then he returned to the edge of the stage. “If you refer to lands and properties that were then held by members or supporters of the so-called Provisional Government, those lands have been confiscated and the governor has already distributed them among those who supported him through his exile. You are asking that the governor strip his supporters of lands that they have earned in order to give them to you. We will not do this.”
When the English version was given, Hal could not believe what he heard. Those had been Fons’ lands to begin with. He remembered the conversation in the woods after Nieuwmarkt, the hope in ten Eyck’s voice that he would reclaim his lands. Hal remembered that Fons had endured the betrayal by his own brother over these lands. He remembered, too, that ten Eyck had said this governor had learned from the errors of his father. Yet, the governor now stood there looking, well, smug. The Black Jackets stood there with him.
Hal waited for ten Eyck to scream out at the unfairness of it all. He held his breath, half-expecting Bel to appear at the edge of the meadow with the woodsranger cavalry. That did not happen, of course, nor would it have done any good if it had. Fons just stood there with his head lowered, an old, tired man in stained and timeworn leathers. Beaten. He had fought the Provis for all those long years, but now he looked like an old man turned out of his house by ungrateful children.
“Wait a minute!” Hal shouted. “This is not fair!”
For a moment, the meadow was absolutely quiet. Even the insects seemed to be holding their buzzing. The man at the front of the stage opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The Black Jackets stared at Hal with eyes that said violence, but they were silent, too.
It was the governor himself who broke the silence. Forgetting both his reserve and his dignity, he blurted out in English, “What did you say?”
“You can’t do this. It’s not fair.” Hal stepped forward, away from the troops and toward the stage. He should feel afraid, especially of the looks from the Black Jackets, but there was no sensation in his stomach. “Fons ten Eyck and the woodsrangers fought for you. They may not look pretty and they don’t have grand titles and some of them, I guess, are English, but they fought. If it wasn’t for them and the men here in this army, you wouldn’t be governor now. They deserve their lands back. You can’t give their lands away to people who did nothing.”
“These lands are the governor’s to do with as he wishes,” said one of the older men standing by the governor. He was addressing the gathered troops as much as he was Hal, but he spoke only in English. The Dutch-first protocol had, apparently, been forgotten.
One of the Black Jackets, who stood with them, said, “This is treason. Yet again.”
The governor realized he had been standing with his mouth open. He closed it, then nodded in the direction of the Black Jacket. “Take him.”
The nearest of the Black Jackets stepped forward and grabbed Hal by the arm. He underestimated the strength that was there. Hal flung him to the side and he landed on his back in the grass. There were scattered cheers from the troops, but they hushed quickly. The tableau lasted only as long as the cheers. A squad of four of the Black Jackets grabbed Hal together. Strain as he might, there was no way for him to break their combined grip. They half-dragged, half-carried him to the pavilion, where they forced him to his knees at the governor’s feet. The Black Jacket who stood by the governor pulled a pistol from his belt.
“You should beg the governor’s mercy. Beg for your life,” the Black Jacket said.
Hal wanted to close his eyes. He could see that the Black Jacket had his thumb on the hammer of the pistol, ready to cock it. He knew what would happen next, but he could not close his eyes. You never did know when to keep your mouth shut. Somehow, he found a second to wonder if he would hear the shot that killed him.
What he heard,
though, was, “First Riflemen, ready!” It was Bailey’s voice.
There was a rustling sound, a clicking sound, then silence again. The grip on him loosened and he got to his feet. The Black Jacket with the revolver was still in front of him, his thumb was still on the hammer, but his eyes were elsewhere. He was looking out at the army. The governor was looking that way, too. His mouth was open again.
Hal turned to look and found no resistance from the men who had been holding him. Where the First Riflemen had stood in ranks, there was now one line kneeling, with a line standing behind them, all with rifles leveled at the pavilion and the governor’s party. The rest of the army was watching them.
“Eugen!” The governor finally found his voice. Hal could only guess at the order that the governor tried to give Verplanck because it was in Dutch, but whatever effect the man might have hoped for was spoiled when his voice slid up an octave.
The shout was followed by the sound of hoofbeats. Eugen Verplanck, resplendent in a new orange uniform heavy with decorations from his long service, rode into Hal’s field of vision. He stopped even with the First Riflemen.
“Bailey, isn’t it?” Verplanck asked Sergeant-Major Bailey.
“Yes, sir,” Bailey said.
“Good.” Verplanck rose in his saddle and looked over at the pavilion. “Sergeant-Major Bailey, if these men harm Colonel Christianson, have your men shoot them all. Shoot to kill.”
“Eugen!” The governor began screaming in English. “What are you saying? This is mutiny. This is treason! You’ll all hang!”
“I don’t think so,” said Verplanck. Out came his sword. He gestured to the regiment in the front row of the other division. Swiftly, bayonets gleamed at the end of muskets. “Colonel Christianson is right. You are governor now only because these men fought for you. The truth is, you don’t deserve it. The Provis were able to win eleven years ago because enough people were tired of your father’s arbitrary rule, but then we discovered the Provis were just as bad. That’s why we all fought for you. Not so that you could pick up where your father left off. Bad enough you brought the Black Jackets back with you, but we would have accepted that. But not this. You are a governor; you are not a king who might claim to rule by divine right. You do not deserve to rule, and from this moment, you do not rule.”
Accidental Warrior: The Unlikely Tale of Bloody Hal Page 39